


don't know what i have seen

by LovelyLessie



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 15:37:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11164893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LovelyLessie/pseuds/LovelyLessie
Summary: Anders wakes from a nightmare with memories from his time in the Circle fresh in his head; Hawke comforts him and calms him down. (written for a friend ; includes discussions of abuse and violence but not depictions.)





	don't know what i have seen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [libraryseraph](https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryseraph/gifts).



He wakes up with his heart pounding in his chest, a desperate cry choking off in his throat. He’s shaking and drenched in cold sweat, and for a moment he’s frozen with panic before he slowly remembers where he is, recognizes the dimly lit room, recognizes the form asleep beside him as Hawke.

The tense, frantic energy drains from his fingertips and he slumps forward, rubbing his temples. The weight in his head settles back uneasily, coiled tight as if to attack but, for the moment, soothed.

Things would have been very different, he thinks bitterly, had Justice been with him when he was younger. Perhaps not better - in fact, in the end, almost certainly not - but different.

With a heavy sigh he stretches and slips out of bed, careful not to disturb Hawke. The fire’s burned down to embers, scarcely lighting the bedroom, much less warming it, and the cold stone underfoot makes his spine prickle and his head ache, too familiar in the wake of the nightmares. He calls a spark to his hand to rekindle the fire, flames flickering back to life in the grate.

Still shaking, he sits down in front of the hearth and draws his knees up to his chest. There’s a hot, rancid taste in the back of his mouth that makes his stomach turn, and he presses his face against his knees, curling in on himself and wishing desperately that Justice could fight back the demons that plagued his dreams lately, too.

Behind him, he hears Hawke stirring, the rustle of the sheets and the faint creak of the bed as he shifts his weight. “Anders?” he asks in a voice heavy with sleep.

“Shh,” Anders replies softly. “Go back to bed.”

But a moment later he hear’s Hawke’s footsteps on the floor as he crosses the room to sit beside him by the fireplace. “What’s wrong?” he asks, rubbing the tiredness from his eyes.

Anders shakes his head, swallowing hard and fixing his eyes on the flames burning low in the grate. “Nothing,” he murmurs. “I’m alright.”

“Bullshit,” Hawke grumbles. “Maker, what time is it? Have you even slept?”

“A little,” he says, nodding, still not meeting Hawke’s eyes. “I only just woke.”

“Can’t get back to sleep?” Hawke asks, and he shakes his head again. A heartbeat passes. “Nightmares?”

He hunches his shoulders, looking into the cinders.

Hawke reaches up to find his shoulder with one hand, draws back sharply when he flinches. “You, ah,” he says, “you don’t have to talk about it. But if you want to, I’m here.”

Anders closes his eyes, his shoulders slumping. “I’m fine, Hawke,” he says again. “You should go back to sleep.”

“Not a chance,” Hawke says stubbornly, and puts an arm around his shoulders.

He sighs, shaking his head. “You shouldn’t worry about me so much.”

“Well,” Hawke replies, leaning his head against Anders’ shoulder, “Maker knows no one else does.”

He feels his throat tighten and his chest ache, tears springing to his eyes that he wills back. “You’re too good to me,” he murmurs, resting his cheek against the top of Hawke’s head.

A long moment passes in silence except for Hawke’s hushed breath and the crackle of the low-burning fire. Anders takes a breath, trying to keep from shaking.

“I dreamed of the Circle,” he says softly. “It’s been happening again. More often, lately.”

“Oh, Anders,” Hawke breathes, fingers tightening on his shoulder.

“You know I ran seven times?” he asks. “I found the Wardens the last time and they took me in. The time before, I - after I was caught, I…”

He swallows hard. Hawke doesn’t speak, just traces quiet circles on his back with his fingers.

“The Templars kept me in solitary confinement for a year,” he continues. “All alone in the dark, with rats for company.” He laughs hollowly. “I damn near lost my mind, but it was worth it. A year locked away by myself seemed a fair trade for a week of freedom, then.”

“That - “ Hawke says, his voice strained. “That’s monstrous.”

He shrugs. “Not the worst that ever happened to me,” he replies quietly, curling in on himself.

“Maker’s breath,” Hawke mutters darkly. “And they call _us_ abominations.”

He manages a shaky smile at that, but his breath catches in his chest. Sick terror and bitter fury twine together, burning in his stomach.

“Do you -“ Hawke begins, and hesitates. “Do you want to talk about it?”

The breath rushes out of him as a strained sound through his teeth; even he isn’t sure if it’s a laugh or a sob. “I don’t know,” he says. “I…I’m not sure I could.”

He looks into the fire, wringing his hands, teeth worrying at his lower lip so hard it hurts. Guilt and fear turn over in his gut and he swallows against them.

“In the Circle, they can do whatever they want,” he manages quietly. “Maybe not to senior enchanters, but to newly harrowed mages - to apprentices…”

His chest tightens, fear threatening to close off his throat. His arms tighten around himself without his willing it.

“The guards, when I was in solitary,” he says, “they kept me quiet. Kicked me, beat me if I didn’t behave - if I begged for water or more food - if I cried - if they heard me praying to the Maker for help, for _comfort…_ ” His fingers trace old scars along his sides from that and a thousand other abuses.

“I’m sorry,” Garrett says. “I’m so sorry.”

“They kept other people out, though,” he adds, “as much as me in. And that was - something, at least.”

He swallows, tasting bile in the back of his throat, his heart heavy in his chest. Hawke doesn’t answer, and Anders sneaks a glances at his face to see his mouth drawn tight, his brow furrowed with concern.

The warmth and kindness in his eyes is, suddenly, too much to bear, and Anders covers his mouth with one hand as he sobs, his eyes welling up despite his best efforts to keep himself together. A tear escapes and trickles down his cheek, and he hastily brushes it away.

He never cried about it in the Circle, he thinks, ducking his head to hide his face. Not even after he ran away - he never let himself think about it long enough. But five years since he left the Circle for good it’s flooding back, terrifying and overwhelming, and he sobs again, his shoulders shaking, unable to stop himself.

“Come here,” Hawke says, opening his arms, and pulls him into a tight embrace.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, his face pressed into Hawke’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, I - I…”

“Shh,” Hawke says, holding him close and rubbing his back with one hand. “It’s alright.”

He lifts his head a little, sniffling, and tries futilely to dry his eyes.

“Karl told me things were worse in Kirkwall,” he whispers, his voice shaking. “Now I know he was right, at least about - some things. In Kinloch, I never saw a harrowed enchanter made tranquil, at least, but - but - “

He shakes Hawke off, pulling away, arms wrapped around his chest. He feels like a child, crying uncontrollably on Hawke’s bedroom floor; but he was a child then, and bore it all in silence. He doesn’t know why _now,_ years later, he’s collapsing in on himself.

“He didn’t know,” he whispers miserably, looking down at the floor, at his toes, anywhere except at Hawke’s face. “I thought he must be wrong, he could only think so because he didn’t know. There were thinks I never - things I couldn’t…”

 _Our little secret,_ hisses the echo in the back of his head. His blood goes hot with rage at the same time as terror turns his heart cold. He remembers a hand around his wrist and a slap across his face, breath hot and sour in his mouth. His fingers curl into fists, nails digging into his palms, trying to steady himself.

“I’d have been better off in the dark forever than facing it again,” he manages, and swallows against the sick feeling in his stomach. “The rats were better company than some of those soulless bastards.”

“Oh, Anders,” Hawke says, and reaches gently for his hands. His fingers slowly unclench, and Hawke’s hands settle in his open palms, warm and comforting.

“I’m sorry,” Anders mumbles thickly, ducking his head. “I - I don’t want it to worry you. I shouldn’t worry you, it was only a dream.”

Hawke scoffs. “Andraste’s blessed ass,” he says, “it’s bad enough that it upset you. Don’t be sorry for that.”

“It shouldn’t,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “I’m stronger than that.”

“Hush,” Hawke says, brushing a few loose strands of his hair back from his face. “Don’t say that. You’re strong enough just for surviving it.”

Anders lifts his head and gives him a shaky smile. “Thank you, Hawke,” he says softly.

Hawke smiles back, clasping his hand. “Come on, love,” he says. “Let’s go back to bed.”


End file.
